Proud Flesh
by VR Trakowski
Summary: Yet another cliché. GS
1. Chapter 1

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. All others belong to me, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**Spoilers: general sixth season through "Secrets and Flies".**

This one is for Cincoflex. She not only supported me through the runaround that this fic gave me, she told me exactly what was wrong with it, repeatedly--an undertaking that requires courage as well as clear sight. Eventually, I paid attention. (grin) Thank you, my friend--I couldn't have done this without you. 

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

She'd never been shot before, but she knew it wasn't fatal. A CSI's work wasn't all corpses, after all; they saw many a survivor, battered and bruised, and often took photos of the damage. It was a flesh wound, it hadn't broken her collarbone…she didn't _think_ it had, anyway…and with Warrick clamping a pad made of his shirt over the wound, she wasn't even in danger of bleeding out.

_Damn,_ it hurt, though.

"Stay with me, girl," Warrick said in her ear, and she wanted to reach back and pop him one, except that would hurt worse.

"I'm not going to pass out," Sara retorted, wishing on one level that she could. The street was chaos as cops scrambled in pursuit of the shooter, who had apparently fired three shots and fled into the night. Only one of them had found a mark in living flesh.

Brass, startlingly pale, skidded to a stop next to their huddle behind the SUV. "How you doing, sweetheart? She okay, 'Rick?" His eyes skimmed over her face and fastened on Warrick's makeshift bandage on her left shoulder.

"She'll be okay if the paramedics get their asses here _now,_" Warrick growled, and Sara hissed as his grip tightened.

"_She_ is right here and listening, guys."

They both ignored her, which did nothing for her fraying temper. "I thought you secured the scene!" There was old panic in Warrick's voice along with his anger.

"We _did._ The shooter came from outside, down the block somewhere. Might be related, might just be some crazy with a grudge." Brass tapped nervously on the glass of the SUV's window and raised his voice to bellow at a passing officer. "Merck, tell the medics to put on some speed! I got a CSI bleeding all over the pavement and no wagon in sight!"

Sara wanted to scream, she really did. Not from the pain, but from the sheer frustration of being randomly hit by a bullet at a crime scene--_we didn't even get started processing!--_from the huge disruption it was going to cause in her life, from the trouble it was going to cause at work. _I really, really didn't need this._

"Guys!" She raised her voice a little, ignoring the fresh stab of pain from the effort required to cut across their bickering. "Will you quit _arguing_!"

Both of them blinked and stared at her, which she would have found funny if she weren't hurting so much, and they shut up, which was what counted. Then Brass' radio crackled and summoned him away, and he rushed off with one worried backward glance. Sara turned her head cautiously towards Warrick.

"Sorry," he mumbled, looking a little abashed. "We're just--worried about you, you know."

"I know." Her elbows stung from hitting the pavement when she'd fallen, and there was a pebble or something digging into her thigh--the pavement here wasn't smooth--but she was afraid to move, lest the pain increase. The SUV's tire was rough against her back, and she was starting to shiver, which hurt too.

Warrick was shivering as well, but then he wasn't wearing anything on top at that moment, and it was chilly enough that their breaths smoked a little. "Guess I picked a bad day to not wear my vest, huh?" Sara managed, trying for a smile and not quite succeeding.

Warrick managed one, and lifted his head as the sound of a siren approached. "Yeah, what's with that?"

"Decomp last night. It stank, so I dropped it off for cleaning." Sara wondered ironically if this incident would motivate the LVPD to spring for extra vests. _Somehow I doubt it._

"Damn, it's about time," Warrick said with relief as the ambulance wove its way into the scatter of cop cars, spilling racing light everywhere. He raised his voice as the paramedics spilled out. "Over here!"

They were familiar faces, going from professional calm to personal concern as the three men recognized the CSIs, but as it became clear that there was only one injury and that non-life-threatening, they started teasing a little as well, though their hands were still gentle.

"Since when did you volunteer for target practice, Sidle?" asked the big one, Mark, as he peeled Warrick's handiwork carefully away.

"Since I signed up for work," Sara answered through clenched teeth, managing half a smile this time. Simon, the oldest, slipped a needle into her good arm with expert smoothness.

"That should take the edge off in a sec," he said kindly. "Just stay put until we get the gurney over, and then it's an express ride to University. Dan--" He pointed at the third man. "Get Brown one of the spare shirts while you're over there, okay?"

A clean bandage was pressed into place, and Sara felt her head spin a little faster, but already the drug was dulling the edge of the agony. Over her head, she heard Mark ask Warrick if he was going along to the hospital.

"No, he's not," she said sharply, contradicting Warrick's acceptance. "He has to process the scene."

"Sara--"

She frowned at him, which wasn't hard at the moment. "Somebody has to do it. Call Catherine and get her to send somebody else out. I'll be fine."

She could see a dozen arguments jostling in his eyes, but he just frowned back. "Somebody has to process you too," he pointed out logically.

Sara closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the SUV. "Cath can do it. No offense."

He snorted, and raised his hand to catch the EMT-labeled shirt that the returning Dan tossed his way. "Got me there. Okay, I'll call Cath and get it set up, and then I'll call Grissom."

"_No._" Her good hand wrapped around his bicep without her conscious thought behind it. "Don't call him."

Warrick frowned again as the paramedics lowered the gurney to the ground with a rattle of chrome. "Sara, he's on vacation, not incommunicado. He'll want to know."

She had so many objections that she didn't know where to start, but there was a simple way to cut Warrick off at the pass. "I'll call him myself. Tell Cath. Don't let anybody else do it."

"Okay, we're ready," Simon cut in. "Just scoot on over here--easy--let us do the work." The strong hands helped her onto the gurney, and it was such a relief to lie back, even though the movement stoked the fire in her shoulder.

Warrick was still clutching the shirt, and she could see--absurd detail--the small smear of her blood that was staining it, transfer from his hands. "I'll be fine, 'Rick, don't worry."

He blinked, and shook his head as they raised the gurney back up to full height. "Yeah, right." His hand brushed her good arm in a swift touch, and then they were wheeling her away to the ambulance, with Simon saying something about starting an IV. Sara stared up at the black sky, and tried not to cry.

**x**

She didn't exactly pass out on the way to the emergency room, but things did get a little fuzzy for a while. The IV provided both fluids and better drugs, and while it hurt like nothing else she'd experienced when they removed the bullet and treated her shoulder, the painkiller at least kept her from caring as much.

"You're staying overnight," the ER doctor told her firmly, a steely glint in his eye. "The bullet nicked the bone, and we want to keep an eye on you for at least twelve hours. Behave yourself and don't run a fever, and you can go home afterwards."

Sara thought about arguing, just on principle, but before she could open her mouth Catherine spoke from the curtained entrance to the cubicle. "I'd listen to the man if I were you. It's that, or I'll send Greg home with you to take care of you."

Sara felt her lips turning up. "Anything but that," she said tiredly. The doctor nodded, satisfied.

"They're setting up a bed for you now. An orderly will take you upstairs when it's ready. Until then, stay put." He shot her one more stern look and whisked out.

Catherine advanced into the cubicle, shaking her head. "Hey, kid. You got lucky out there."

"Tell me about it." The more unpleasant possibilities kept running in Sara's head, helped along by the chemicals in her veins; a shot a little lower, through her elbow or her lung or her abdomen; a shot a little higher, through her skull. _Though with the latter I probably wouldn't notice._

Or worse, the shot hitting Warrick instead. It was all too easy to imagine him limp on the asphalt, blood and brain spattering over the ground and over her.

Catherine regarded her for a moment, and then nodded, reaching out to twitch Sara's patient gown into place; they'd had to cut her shirt off. "Well, I'm mostly here to collect the bullet and take photos, but I'm also the eyes of the lab--everyone's going to want to know that you're okay." She raised her brows. "Will you be okay?"

She was too exhausted to lie. "Yeah. Eventually."

Catherine nodded again. "Is there anything you need? Anyone you want me to call?"

"Not right now." _Grissom,_ the back of her mind reminded her. "Oh, Catherine, don't call Grissom. I can do it."

Not a lie; she _could _do it. _Whether I **will** is another matter entirely._

Catherine shrugged. "It's your call. Tell you what, let me get the photos out of the way and grab your bullet, and then I'll hang around until they take you upstairs. If you want."

Sara was a little surprised to discover that she did want. "Thanks, Cath."

**x**

The county's HMO didn't cover a private room, of course, but apparently University was having a slow night, because there was no one else in the triple to which they wheeled her. Sara stared at the ceiling and tried to relax into the crisp sheets, but her shoulder burned and her stomach was queasy, and the constant low murmur of the ward was just enough to keep her on edge.

Catherine had, as promised, stayed until they had taken Sara upstairs, but she'd had to get back to work, and Sara was surprised at how much she missed the older CSI's presence. For all their conflicts in the past, Catherine had been a friend for those two hours, distracting Sara with funny stories from her days as a stripper and bringing her ice chips to soothe her throat. She wouldn't have been Sara's first choice as a companion, but she had been just what Sara needed.

And now Sara was lonely. She was tired, she hurt, and for all that she spent so much of her time alone--partly by choice--she really, really wanted a friendly voice by her bedside, a warm hand to hold. _Shut up,_ she told herself severely. _It's just a reaction to being shot. You're fine, you're in the middle of a good hospital. You've got everything you need. _

Just not everything she wanted.

The incident kept replaying itself in her head--the shock of the bullet slamming into her, sending her sprawling onto the asphalt with the echo of the shot ringing in her ears; the struggle to stay conscious at first, and to comprehend what had happened; Warrick's furious, frightened oaths as the agony spread from a point in her shoulder to a scorching grinding that ran down the nerves in her arm and chest and up her neck. A moment's panic, before she realized that it hadn't hit anything vital; more fear as she braced for another shot.

She hurt less now than she had since it had happened, thanks to the drugs blurring the edges, but there was still a dull pain to remind her, and her stomach was none too steady either. Her bruises and scrapes were making themselves felt, and the tape that held the IV needle in her arm itched.

And she was all alone.

Self-pity was part of the dark cloud roiling under her breastbone, but Sara was in a mood to indulge it. Her thoughts kept drifting to Grissom, and she kept yanking them away, without a lot of success. On one level, she knew he'd be angry if no one informed him that she'd been shot, but in her hurt she built a wall between herself and that fact, brick by brick.

_He's on vacation, the first one he's taken in years. He doesn't need to be disturbed. _

_I'm not seriously hurt. I could even be back at work before he gets home. _

_It's nothing Catherine and Ecklie can't handle--after all, she's dealing with all Grissom's work while he's gone. _

_I don't owe him anything. It's not like we're even friends any more. _

_He doesn't owe me anything. He'd think he had to come back for the sake of protocol, but he'd just be mad about having to cut his vacation short. _

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was aware that the logic of her last brick was somewhat flawed, but she didn't have the energy to care. She blinked at the ceiling--a very boring ceiling, it was--and felt a runnel of moisture spill out of the far corner of her eye and trail down her temple, turning from hot to cold as it went.

_It's better this way. Maybe he won't even find out. And if he does, this will let him know that I don't expect anything from him anymore. _

_Really, it's a good thing. _

Another splash escaped, but before a third could join them, a nurse appeared at her bedside. "You need to sleep. Doctor's orders," he said kindly, and added something to her IV. And after that, there was nothing.

**xxxx**

He was a day early--or a night, rather--but he didn't mind. Grissom walked into the lab building with a renewed sense of contentment. Three weeks of vacation had done wonders for his energy level, even if the first week had been spent at a conference. _Well, it was an entomological conference. That **is** a vacation. _

He hadn't planned to take more than a week at first, but the combination of several pointed HR memos concerning leave and the memory of Sara's comment about his work habits had spurred him to do the unthinkable and actually leave the lab for three whole weeks. He'd spent the first week in Duluth, the second in Marina del Rey, and the third in Oregon studying termites. _It was...fun, actually._

Now he was back, some twenty-four hours before anyone expected him, and Grissom was looking forward to work and routine, and seeing his people again. Even the stubborn brunette who troubled him so.

_Especially _the stubborn brunette. Grissom had done a lot of thinking, the past few weeks, and among his thoughts had been the question of whether Sara was still...well...interested.

He figured he was ready to find out.

Grissom stopped at the front desk. "Any messages?" he asked Judy, who looked up at him in surprise and fluttered a little.

"Oh, Doctor Grissom, I wasn't expecting you back until tomorrow. But yes, here." She handed him a thick stack, and he nodded his thanks and kept walking.

As he passed Catherine's office, he stuck his head in the door. "Hey. I'm back."

Catherine looked up. "You're early. Did you bring me anything?"

Grissom held up a jar. "A fine example of _Zootermopsis angusticollis._"

Catherine snorted, pushing back her chair as she stood. "Oh, please."

"Salt-water taffy. It's in my car. What's on tonight?" He fell into step beside her as she exited the small room.

"Not much. Lucky for us, because Sara's off tonight." Catherine shuffled through a few assignment slips. "Do you want to do the honors, or shall I?"

"You go ahead," Grissom said magnanimously. "Even though I know that means I'll probably get stuck with paperwork."

"Too right." They arrived at the breakroom, which already held Nick, Warrick, and Greg. All three looked up as they entered, but as their eyes fell on Grissom Nick's face hardened and Greg scowled.

"You're finally back," Warrick commented laconically, eyes cool.

"Yes, I am," Grissom returned, slightly puzzled, but before he could pursue the issue, Catherine spoke.

"Okay, guys, here we go. Nick, you and Greg have a 419 out at Shepherd's Park. Warrick, 459 at the Sheraton on Louis Street." She flipped two slips out of her handful. "I'm taking a suspected suicide, and Grissom gets the booby prize with paperwork. Serves him right for taking so much time off."

Grissom sighed exaggeratedly. "If I don't take time off, you hassle me. I can't win."

"Live with it, big guy," Catherine advised, and swept out. Without a word, the three men got to their feet and followed her.

Confused, Grissom blocked Greg's exit behind the other two. "Is there something going on I should know about?"

Greg looked at him with unfriendly eyes. "You tell me."

Grissom frowned. "I'm not in the mood for games, Greg."

The younger man's indignation was clear, though Grissom couldn't fathom a reason for it. "It's been two _weeks_, Grissom. Did you even call?"

Now thoroughly confused, Grissom didn't stop Greg as his newest CSI pushed past. "I didn't know you missed me that much," he murmured dryly as Greg disappeared down the hall. And then frowned. "It was _three_ weeks."

Shaking off the small mystery, he trudged off to his office to tackle the paperwork that had stacked up in his absence.

Two hours and half a pile later, Grissom was bored and considering serious coffee. He'd gone through requisition forms, inventory printouts, and lab memos, none of the papers requiring much brain power but all of them needing more than just a signature. _Tedious in the extreme. Why must bureaucracy insist on everything in triplicate? _

The next thing down, however, was considerably more interesting, an accident form half filled out in Catherine's distinctive small hand. _Did someone get hurt while I was away? _His attention caught, Grissom began paging through the attached report. _It can't have been serious, or someone would have called m--_

The name at the top of the form, the name repeated again and again throughout the report, made his stomach twist sharply. _**Sara** got hurt? _

_Sara was **shot**?_

It took an effort to read calmly, to discover that her wound had been minor and that there had, so far, been no complications. She had even returned to light duty at the lab a few days before, but had opted to take her scheduled night off.

Grissom found himself on his feet without a memory of rising. With an odd detachment, he realized that his hands were trembling a little as he shrugged into his jacket and picked up his wallet and keys. As he closed his office door behind him, he saw Catherine coming down the hallway towards him.

"Clear-cut suicide," she said briskly, then halted.

His grip on her arm was too tight, but Grissom just didn't care at the moment. "Sara was hurt," he said, his voice icy.

"Yeah, but she said she'd call--" Catherine's indignation melted into shock. "Oh, she didn't. Did she?"

"She did not," Grissom said with perfect calm, and released his colleague, heading for the front door. "Don't warn her, Catherine," he said over his shoulder, and though he didn't pause he was pretty certain he heard a muttered "Wouldn't dream of it."

He carried his fury as he would an overfull glass, stepping carefully so as not to spill a drop of it from the trembling rim. His thoughts were clear, controlled. Getting into her apartment complex wouldn't be a problem, Grissom mused as he drove. Her door might be trickier; he wouldn't put it past her to refuse to answer it if she knew who was on the other side.

_What in hell is she up to? She knows she has to face me sooner or later._ Grissom gritted his teeth and concentrated on his driving, but the closer he got to Sara's place, the clearer the realization became.

There was no question any more. He knew exactly what he wanted, and as long as there was the slightest bit of interest left on her part, he intended to get it.

As Grissom had expected, it was easy to get into her complex; he just followed a resident in, not even having to flash his badge. And when he stepped out of the elevator onto her floor, he discovered he was in luck. Sara's door was open, and an older woman stood in the doorway, her back to the corridor. "All right, dear," he heard her say as he approached. "If you need anything, just give me a call."

She turned the other way and walked away without even really noticing Grissom, and it was absurdly simple for him to step forward and shove the closing door.

**See Chapter 2**


	2. Chapter 2

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. All others belong to me, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**Spoilers: general sixth season through "Secrets and Flies".**

This one is for Cincoflex. She not only supported me through the runaround that this fic gave me, she told me exactly what was wrong with it, repeatedly--an undertaking that requires courage as well as clear sight. Eventually, I paid attention. grin Thank you, my friend--I couldn't have done this without you. 

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Sara couldn't exactly say she was glad to see the back of Mrs. Greeley, but it was something of a relief to see the woman go. A natural night owl, Mrs. Greeley knew a little more about Sara's life than most of the people on their floor, and when she'd discovered Sara's injury, she'd taken it upon herself to provide soup and comfort to the "poor girl."

_Too bad she's never figured out that vegetarians don't eat chicken soup._ Sara waved cheerfully as Mrs. Greeley finally turned to go, and gave the door a push to close it as she turned towards her kitchenette and the covered pot there. _I can pour it down the drain, wash the pot, and give it back in three days, and she'll--_

The door flew open so fast that it banged into the wall. Badly startled, Sara spun, her good hand groping for a spatula, a spoon, something to defend herself--

But it was _Grissom_ stepping into her apartment, a Grissom whose face was so grim that Sara abandoned the idea of a weapon and took several steps backwards, immediately apprehensive. _What the hell--_

With obvious control, he closed the door behind him and threw the lock, then stalked towards her. Sara lifted her chin. "What are you--"

The words died in her throat as Grissom reached out and took hold of the shirt she was wearing. It was old and soft, worn unbuttoned over a comfortable camisole, and when he yanked down the left sleeve, there was no hiding the bandage.

For a long moment they stood frozen, Grissom staring at the neat square of gauze and tape, and Sara not willing to try to pull away while his grip on her clothing was white-knuckled.

"You didn't tell me," he said at last, soft and cold. "You didn't let anybody tell me."

Sara set her jaw. "It was none of your business, Grissom. It wasn't serious, and Catherine was perfectly capable of handling it."

If it was possible, Grissom's hold on the soft cloth grew even tighter. "You were _shot,_ Sara," he said, still in a too-calm voice. "How is that not serious?"

Suddenly fed up, Sara lifted her good arm and shoved at his chest. The shirt slid out of his left fist, but his right still held tightly, and the movement wrenched her damaged shoulder. Sara couldn't quite muffle a grunt of pain.

Immediately Grissom let her go entirely, face white. "Don't tell me it's not serious," he snapped, his voice now just above a whisper.

Sara rubbed gingerly at her collarbone near the wound. "Fine," she retorted. "It's serious, if that makes you feel better. But it's still none of your business."

She started to turn away, but Grissom moved, crowding her back against her kitchen island, placing one hand on either side to cage her. Startled again, she let him, and Grissom leaned in until his mouth was next to her ear. "_Yes. It. Is._"

His proximity did her in. Sara's anger was swamped by her senses, by the scent of Grissom filling her lungs and the heat of him brushing her thighs and sides. Instead of twisting away, or shouting, she found she could only shiver, caught and pinned by his sheer presence.

Leaning back just slightly, Grissom took hold of her shirt again. Sara wasn't sure if he meant to do it, but the worn fabric parted in the tension of his grip, and he stripped the remnants from her with careful precision. Warm fingers brushed her shoulder as Grissom moved the slender strap of her camisole down her shoulder, and then, delicately, he began to peel away the tape.

At that Sara moved to stop him, but his left hand caught her right in a fast, tight grip, holding her arm immobile. She twitched, she couldn't help it, when the tape pulled her skin, but Grissom didn't stop. When it required both hands, he put her right hand behind her back and let it go, and for some reason she had no will left to defy him. This Grissom, fierce and furious, was someone she didn't know.

Finally he lifted the pad away, fixing his eyes on the revealed flesh. Sara winced as the air hit the sensitive skin. It wasn't a pretty wound; the stitches had finally been removed two days previously, and the tiny holes left were scabbed over. The skin was puckered and inflamed, and the muscle beneath was concave.

The doctor had told her it would smooth out with time, and Sara had been more concerned about the placement of the scar than the scar itself. She had enough of them to know what they were like. But now, with Grissom's gaze boring into that spot, she wanted to cover it up again.

In fact, she expected him to do just that, when he'd satisfied whatever infernal curiosity drove him. But instead, Grissom tossed the pad onto the counter behind her, braced his arms on either side of her hips--

--and with a touch more delicate than she had thought possible in anyone, he pressed his lips to her wound.

It was the prickle of his mustache on the new skin that raised goosebumps all over her, but it was the absolute reverence in the gesture that made Sara tilt her head back and bite her lips to choke off the tears. Grissom moved his head slowly, gradually covering the tender flesh with the lightest of kisses, as though they would take away the hurt and heal the damage.

His breath tickled just a little, as did the brush of his hair on her throat, and Sara found herself leaning hard against the counter for support, her good hand clutching the edge. She didn't know this Grissom, not at all; the Grissom she knew was barely able to reach out and take her hand. This man was shattering her brick wall with every touch of his mouth, with the barely-there pressure that felt cool against her scored flesh. She wanted to weep; she wanted to punch him; she wanted to put her head on his shoulder and just let him hold her.

Finally he raised his head; his eyes were tired, hurt, but still incandescent with anger. "How dare you?" he asked, his tone low and chilling. "How _dare_ you keep me from knowing about this?"

Guilt nibbled at Sara, she'd done what she had mostly out of hurt, but she was still angry. "I told you, it wasn't--"

His eyes narrowed, and she got the feeling that he would have shaken her if she had been healthy. "The welfare of my CSIs is very much my business," he said. "For pity's sake, Sara, we almost lost Nick not too long ago! You--"

"I wasn't dying," she interrupted. "It's just a flesh wound." She planted her right palm on his chest and shoved, which made him rock a little, but he didn't move. "There was no reason to interrupt your vacation."

Grissom reached up and snagged her wrist again. "That was not your decision to make."

Sara yanked, but his grip was firm. "Okay, fine," she said bitterly. "So I should have called. I didn't. That still doesn't give you the right to barge in here and rip my shirt off."

Grissom was silent a moment, eyes fixed on hers. "Perhaps not," he said at last. His expression was closed, abstracted. "Why didn't you call, Sara?"

She _hated_ feeling like a student being reprimanded by a teacher. "I told you already."

"You told me one reason. I don't think it's the only reason." Grissom the investigator was looking at her now, the same way he did a crime scene that was in the process of giving up its secrets.

"Think what you like." Sara wanted to move away, but all she could do was close her eyes and turn her head. "You will anyway."

"That's right." Warm fingers touched her cheek, but Sara refused to look at him. "But I still want to know."

She could feel his determination, a phantom pressure. He'd done this to her once before, settled in her apartment and refused to leave until she told him what he wanted to know. _And it was a relief to tell him,_ one treacherous corner of her mind reminded her. She tried to ignore it.

There was anger behind his determination this time, though, fueling it to the point where she knew she had no hope of getting rid of him. Sara knew herself to be stubborn--it was one of her strengths as well as one of her flaws--but when Grissom took it into his head to do something, he was inexorable.

"You won't like it," she told him flatly, opening her eyes. He was wearing shoes and she wasn't, so that put her gaze at about the level of his nose, rather to her relief. His hand dropped to the counter again, but he didn't back away.

"Tell me anyway."

Sara swallowed. This was going to blow their relationship, such as it was, all to hell; but then, she thought, it wasn't much of a relationship to begin with.

"I didn't want you there," she said, not trying to soften the words. "I didn't want you cutting your vacation short for something that was really less serious than a broken leg, and I didn't want you getting all pissed at me for something I couldn't help."

There was venom in her voice now, she could hear it, and she felt Grissom's grip loosen on her arm. "You would have come in there and been awkward, told me to get better and walked away again, and--"

She choked on the words, and in desperation planted her right elbow in his chest, twisting away and taking a few strides out into her living room. She wanted to stop, to keep this last truth to herself, but it spilled out anyway. "I wouldn't have been able to stand it."

There was silence behind her, and then she heard him sigh, a sound so deeply sad that her heart ached despite her anger and humiliation. "Sara..."

She whipped her good hand in a cutting gesture, not turning around. "Save it, okay, Grissom? I was wrong, I screwed up, fine. Now you know why. You can go away and pretend it all didn't happen, and I'll come to work tomorrow like a good little CSI and we can go back to the status quo."

Judging from the lump in her throat, that status would not pertain for long, but that was a problem for another night. Sara wondered wearily whether Grissom would try to come up with something to say, or whether she would just hear the door open and close as he left.

Instead, the hand on her right shoulder startled her badly enough that she jumped, and it closed to hold her in place, though not hard. Grissom's other hand skimmed down the outside of her left arm before settling hesitantly on her hip. Sara felt the goosebumps return as his breath stirred her hair, and her lonely body betrayed her; she couldn't force herself to step away.

"I wouldn't have walked away, Sara," Grissom said to the back of her head, barely audible. "I would have stayed until I knew you were going to be okay, and then I would have stayed until you kicked me out." He sighed again. "But I do realize that you...couldn't know that."

She wanted so much to believe him, but this was too much to take in, too big a change. "Because you were scared?" she asked harshly. "One bullet changed your mind? Sorry, Grissom, but even if you did, I seriously doubt you would stick around very long. I'm too big a risk, remember?"

He grunted softly, and his right hand slid around her shoulder to settle on her collarbone, his index finger dipping into the hollow of her throat and his thumb stroking delicately under her ear. It made her shiver, and brought him closer. "Based on past evidence, I'd have to say...yes. But I'd like to present new evidence."

Sara wrapped her good arm around herself, folding the other gingerly in towards her chest and fighting the urge to lean back against him. "I'm here, Sara," Grissom went on. "I know I don't have a lot of credit with you, but the only way to prove myself is to be here. So...I'm here."

She was shivering harder now, wanting so badly to believe him, but years of disappointment and heartache were bearing down on her. "What if I tell you to go?"

His thumb stilled, as did the faint breeze of his breath, and Sara heard him swallow. "You'll have to convince me you really want me gone," he said after a moment, and his tone held no hope. "But if you do, then I will respect your wishes."

It hurt, this choice, it hurt so badly. Part of her did want him gone, wanted him out of her life, no longer tormenting her with her own yearning. The other part wanted him insanely, wanted what she had long since stopped believing she could have. For an eternal instant she wavered between the two, a final pain or a painful joy, trying to decide.

And at last she let herself relax, let knotted muscles loosen, let gravity draw her back against him. Grissom let out a harsh breath, and braced himself to take her weight, sliding his arms around her waist to cradle her. Sara felt his cheek against her ear, and she folded her arms over his--carefully, so as not to jar her wound.

They stood silent for a long time. Gradually Sara let her head fall back against his shoulder, feeling unalone for the first time in a very long while. Grissom kept his cheek pressed to hers for a bit, then pulled back just far enough, and started kissing her again. Tiny light kisses fell along her ear, her cheekbone, her jaw; his lips moved gradually down her throat as he took his time, imprinting her with his touch. It wasn't really arousing, though the tickle of his whiskers made Sara shiver again; it was soothing, comforting, each fragile touch a promise and a cherishing. She lifted her good hand to touch his face, and felt him kiss her fingertips too.

"Don't go," she finally murmured. Grissom made a low sound, not quite a word, and placed one last kiss where her neck and shoulder met. There his lips lingered a moment, as though he was reluctant to stop.

When he lifted his head, Sara sighed, and pushed gently at his arms until they loosened; and when they did she turned, until she could get her good arm around Grissom's neck and lean against him--not quite straight on, but nonetheless close.

It felt unbelievably good. Sara had convinced herself over bitter time that the attraction between them was nothing out of the ordinary, and cursed herself for her inability to let it go; but just this slightly clumsy embrace proved her wrong. Grissom had one arm wrapped around her waist and the other hand resting lightly on her left hip, and it felt like that touch alone was soothing some interminable small hunger. Sara rubbed her cheek against his, something she'd been wanting to do for years, and Grissom held her a little tighter. "Sara--"

She shook her head, not wanting words, and began returning his kisses one by one, placing them gently on his cheekbone, his temple, even his eyelids. As she laid one under the corner of his jaw, she could feel his pulse, still running a little high; but she didn't stop, and as she traced a path along the line of his beard, she could sense it calming. When it had slowed to her satisfaction, she put her head back down on his shoulder, and let him hold her.

Some time later--she was never sure how much later--Grissom released her, reluctantly, and took three steps to her breakfast bar. It wasn't until he took her hand and made her lean against it again that she realized that with her camisole strap down, she was in danger of indecent exposure; but without a word or a blush Grissom merely took up the packet of gauze and roll of tape from the counter, and rebandaged her shoulder with the skill she expected and a tenderness that still made her eyes prickle. He drew up the strap again, smoothing it into place, and his mouth twisted ruefully as he glanced at the rag that had been her shirt. "I'll get you a new one," he said softly.

Sara opened her mouth to tell him it wasn't necessary--the shirt's virtue had been in its age and softness--and then felt a slow, crooked smile coming on, for the first time in way too long.

**x**

Grissom rinsed the last glass and handed it to Sara, who dried it carefully with the now-damp dishtowel and reached up to place it in the cupboard over her stove. She had rolled her eyes when he had offered to do the few of their dinner dishes that couldn't go in the dishwasher, but he had pointed out with calm logic that he didn't know where things went, and that had carried the day where his concern for her injury had not.

That was his Sara. The possessive sounded very good to his mind's ear, though new; he definitely thought he could get used to it. _Of course, _the back of his mind reminded him with amusement, _you belong to her just as much._

Well, he had no objections to that.

Sara folded up the dishtowel and hung it on the handle of the oven door, and Grissom pulled out the sink plug and rinsed his hands as the dishwater gurgled away. Somehow the question of his returning to work had never even been raised, and instead they had just sat together for a long time; not speaking, not worrying, just being.

Now she stretched a little, stiffly, twisting her neck as though it pained her. Grissom raised a brow in inquiry, and she shrugged, one-sided. "Having a hole in my shoulder throws everything out of whack. It's nothing."

Grissom snorted silently, then dried his hands and jerked his head towards Sara's sofa. "C'mon."

Obviously curious, she complied, but then stiffened when he sat down next to her and turned her gently away from him. "Griss--"

"Relax," he instructed, and began on the tendons of Sara's neck, moving carefully. After a few seconds, she did so, letting out a faint moan of appreciation. Her muscles were knotted with more than just the strain of the injury, Grissom judged, but he kept his touch light, feeling some of the tautness loosen under his fingers. This was a long-held, secret dream of his; not just having the right to touch Sara, but having the ability to ease her.

When he had gone as far as he could without hurting her shoulder, Grissom gave in to another fantasy and swept the hair off her nape so he could plant one more kiss there. Sara sighed at his touch.

"Just so you know," she said thickly, "as soon as my arm's healed I'm gonna return the favor."

"I look forward to it," Grissom replied, meaning it.

She turned her head to look at him and laughed a little, and Grissom basked in the sound before sitting back and coaxing her to lean against him. He looked at the dark head resting on his chest for a long minute before daring to speak.

"Tell me about the shooting."

Sara pursed her lips, looking doubtful, but when he waited, she rubbed her elbow absently, and told him. It took a lot of control for Grissom to stay still and relaxed; particularly when he felt her shiver a little as she described the first burst of agony, and at the waver in her voice when she told him how alone she had felt those hours in the hospital.

"I'm sorry," she said at last, and the words, low and regretful, pierced his heart. "I should have called you, I know, or let somebody else do it. It was just--I think in the end I was afraid that you wouldn't come."

He had to swallow, and keep himself from hugging her too hard. "I'm sorry too," he said, forcing his voice past a whisper. "I've given you so much cause to doubt me."

After a moment Sara shrugged, a slow and careful movement. "You're here now," she pointed out practically.

Eventually, of course, he did have to leave. Grissom had roaches to feed and unpacking to do, and Sara needed sleep to heal. He did make one shy request, and Sara stared at him long enough for Grissom to feel his ears heating; but then she grinned at him, and it was all right.

So she brushed her teeth and fluffed her pillow, and Grissom watched her draw up the sheet over herself, and he sat on the edge of her bed and indulged in fantasy number three, stroking her hair until her eyes closed and her breathing evened out.

He thought her asleep, but when he leaned down to take one last kiss from the soft skin of her cheek, she stirred sleepily, and Grissom discovered that Sara's cheek had nothing on the softness of her lips.

It was even harder, after that, to make himself leave, but Grissom did so, leaving behind a Sara whose smile still lingered though her eyes were shut again. He paused at her door to pull on his jacket, and the very act of doing so made him smile too, because he wore nothing beneath it but his white undershirt.

_I wonder if I'll ever get my shirt back._ He pictured it once more on Sara, oversized but soft enough to be declared just what she wanted, and decided he didn't care. The image of her cuddled down into it, sound asleep, gave him the fanciful notion of it being some remnant of his own embrace, and Grissom shook his head and zipped up his jacket in preparation for the cool dawn.

He didn't want to leave, but that was the best part; he could come back.

He would come back.

**End.**


End file.
